To Thine Own Self
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: A chance meeting between Polonius' daughter and the prince of Denmark develops into an affair that shapes their lives and their futures. A Hamlet and Ophelia short story.
1. Frozen

**A/N: **Last year, during an indepth discussion on Shakespeare, my friend Nat challenged me to write her an Ophelia/Hamlet vignette. It has been on my list of "Things I Want To Accomplish In My Time As A FanFic Writer" for a while and I finally managed to find the inspiration and the story. This is for Nat – happy holidays!

I've taken certain artistic liberties with coming up with character backgrounds from before the start of _Hamlet. _In this story, Ophelia spent her adolescent years in France. Hamlet has already been to Wittenberg and has started his studies there. This takes place before the murder of King Hamlet and the coronation of Claudius. I was also trying out a different writing style with this story. Since I did not want to write it in verse (as my verse is total and complete crap compared to Shakespeare), I had to change the approach to dialogue but I still wanted to maintain a Shakespearean feel to the speech. I'm not sure if I succeeded or not, but there you go.

Much thanks to Tchaikovsky's op. 67, which is his musical tribute to _Hamlet._ I listened to it non-stop while writing this and you should go check it out because it's an awesome piece of orchestral music. The title is, of course, from Polonius' most famous line from Act I, Scene III: "This above all: to thine own self be true."

Many thanks to JediAnt/Abagael for betaing!

* * *

**To Thine Own Self**

* * *

_**Doubt thou the stars are fire;**_

_**Doubt that the sun doth move;**_

_**Doubt truth to be a liar;**_

_**But never doubt I love.**_

_**Hamlet. Act I, Scene ii, lines 115-118.**_

* * *

_I. Frozen _

Elsinore is deathly cold this time of year. Out of desire to avoid his disappointment, I will never tell my father that I miss Paris desperately. I long for the sprawling city, the bustling sounds of music and culture, and the winding rivers. Most of all, I want to see the bright greens that came after the thaws, signalling spring's coming and the return of life after winter.

Yet here I am, returned to the land of my birth, on my father's whim because he missed me. No doubt he has a marriage in mind and wanted to bring me back before I became too comfortable with romance-seeking Frenchmen. This appears to be a latent fear all fathers have about virtuous daughters, whether they want to admit it or not. How little faith he has in me: I would rather enter a nunnery than sacrifice my virtue to a man I barely know for the delights of one night of passion. Intriguing though they are, I am yet to meet a man who is either interesting or delightful to talk to. Learned men take no notice of me, for books and the rites of scholarship are far more interesting. A mere woman pales in comparison to the likes of parchment and ink.

Elsinore is a cold castle, high on the hills, over-looking the river. Though it is spring by the calendar, the weather says otherwise. This morning, as we travel by carriage up the craggy hillside to the castle, I can see the shimmer of frost on the stillborn grass, yellow and matted after months of snowy burial. I sigh. My eyes narrow in distaste at the sight of my silvery breath rising into the air. I pull my fur-lined cloak tighter around my shoulders.

"You look troubled, daughter," my father says.

I smile as gently as I can. "Not troubled. My heart grieves for my brother. His presence here is greatly missed."

My father's brow darkens. "Be not troubled by Laertes' absence, daughter. He will return to us when the values of France have given him all he desires."

I hold back a choked laugh. Father means it well and he means it innocently, but he fails to recognize the hidden meaning of his own words. Of course Laertes is enjoying the "values of France". He is a man, after all.

"Ah," Father says, noticing my altered mood and misreading its cause. "Do I detect a light in your eye, daughter of mine? Could it be the glimmer of happiness? Do not despair, Ophelia. Your brother will return to you in time."

_He will not return of his own volition._ I do not have the heart to say it aloud. I have to keep Father happy, as is my duty as his daughter. It is a game my brother and I have played for many a year.

I watch the countryside pass as the carriage climbs its way upwards to the castle. I am banished from the city of my heart to the city of my birth. I do not know if I will ever return to Paris, but that chapter of my life is now over. I must begin afresh. I will not let the coldness of Elsinore chill my heart.

There is a babbling brook that runs down the hill, falling through cracked ice in happy rapids towards the river. At its edge is a great willow, still asleep, waiting nature's call. This is a good place to visit in the summer, I decide. Perhaps I will journey here. Perhaps Elsinore can be my home after all.

When we finally reach the castle, we ride in as if we are royalty ourselves. Father is chief counsellor to the king. As such, he demands a certain respect from the other courtiers who reside here. There is a flurry of greetings and then we are ushered in to see the king and queen. Queen Gertrude welcomes me like a daughter as Father and King Hamlet settle into a brief and mild discussion. It all seems very detached, as if I am watching the scene from afar, orchestrating my own movements as though I am a puppet master. I am not certain if I can adjust to this life immediately. My mind has gone blank.

Father waits for me to say something to the king, but I cannot speak.

"I apologize, your Majesty," he says quickly to cover my dumbfoundness. "My daughter is very tired."

"Well, then, she must get some rest immediately." The queen rises from her seat and graciously escorts me toward the nearest door. She calls for a maid and instructs the girl to take me to my quarters.

There is a fire lit in my bedchamber when we reach it. It is the warmest place I have been all day. The maid then leaves me to my privacy. I lay on my bed, but I cannot sleep. It is strange, being back in the place where I grew up. It is familiar, and yet not. I want to run from the strangeness, but something bids me to stay.

I sit up and dart across the room. I do not need rest. I need motivation, something to keep my wandering mind occupied. What else can accompany a wandering mind but wandering feet? I am struck by a sudden desire to test my memory of this castle. I will depart on a mission of exploration.


	2. Chance

_II. Chance_

Though I am indoors, the stone halls are chilled. As such, I keep my cloak about me for added warmth. Perhaps the king and queen have an obsession with cold? How difficult is it to keep a castle warm? I am having ridiculous thoughts. It is very difficult to keep a large, drafty castle warm when the weather is not agreeable. My footsteps echo eerily as I make my way through the halls and down staircases. I am struck by the strange splendour of a place as forlorn as this: though it lacks the warm beauty common in the palaces of the southern countries, the castle retains a feeling of cold magnificence that is awe-inspiring to behold.

The day is approaching sundown. There is a large window at the end of this hall; I can see golden light streaming through it. I run to the end of the hall and sit on the ledge, as if I am a seven year old girl once again. The land beyond is breathingtaking. It is a vast view of river and land and sea, stained red by the setting of the sun, stretching out for all eternity. I feel so small and insignificant in comparison to this natural beauty.

I am suddenly startled out of my reverie by the most unlikely of sounds. A male voice rises, clear as a bell, singing in a language that sounds like my own, yet I do not recognize the words. Intrigued, I follow the voice. It is the most gorgeous thing I have heard since I left France.

I turn a corner and see a set of large double doors. One of them is ajar. I grasp its edge and slowly pull it away, giving just enough room for me to slip through.

The door creaks. The voice stops.

I curse under my breath. Perhaps I should leave, before my attempted spying is discovered. I consider it. I try to slip out the way I came, but the hem of my gown snares on the edge of a flagstone. Trying to release it, I fall forwards, tripping unwontedly into the room. I catch sight of where I am and my breath leaves me.

I am in the library, a room that has been expressedly forbidden to me for much of my life. The only books that have passed through my hands are the Holy Bible and various psalm books. Never before have I seen so many books in one place. I know I should leave, but I am tempted to investigate further. After all, how much harm can a book do? The mysterious voice forgotten, I step forward, reaching out a hand. I pull the nearest book from its shelf, marvelling in the soft sturdiness of its binding and the scent of its pages. I lift the cover to turn it and see what written treasures are contained within.

"And what have we here?"

I gasp in surprise, dropping the book. It falls to the floor with a thud as my instincts urge me to flee, to hide myself as though I have never come here. I dart behind the shelf.

I hear footsteps and the sliding sound of leather against wood as the book is returned to its proper place.

"Books ought to be treated kindly," the man says. "They are your friends. Trust them entirely and they will help you. Perhaps they will even save your life – or destroy it."

I do not answer, remaining absolutely still, barely daring to breath for fear its sound would be detected.

_I am a shadow. I am nothingness. I am not here. Leave me alone._

"I see that you, too, enjoy the inviting calm of the forbidden library, my lady." The man steps around the bookshelf. There is no malice in his voice; it is light-hearted, amused. I cautiously raise my face and meet his eyes. He is young. There is a kind look to his face and a keen fervour to his eyes. He is vaguely familiar, but I cannot place who he is.

He observes me with a strange look. I cannot tell whether he is questioning why I am here or if he is going to throw me out and I will be punished for treading where I should not.

"I jest, my lady," he says. "This library is not forbidden."

"Oh!" I stand there awkwardly. I do not know what to say.

He begins to laugh. It is such a simple, happy sound. I know he is laughing at me, but I do not sense that he means it cruelly. It feels genuine. My heart is lightened.

"I am sorry, my lady," he says as he composes himself. "The look on your face… it was as if you believed my words to be true!"

A laugh escapes me, unwanted. His cheerfulness is affecting me. "I have not been to Elsinore for many a year, sir. I have but recently returned. I am no longer familiar with every rule and regulation." Without thinking of my words, I continue on. "My father's companionship is, I admit, rather stale. I thought an exploration of my childhood home would bring more stimulation to my sleeping mind than listening to the tales of woe of an old man."

"Shall we walk, then?" he answers, offering me an arm. "I do not wish for your exploration to be discontinued. Perhaps we should start with the library?"

I smile widely and take his arm. "I do believe I accept," I say.

We walk about the library, speaking of frivolities such as the weather. My heart is light. I feel great companionship in this man. I myself am surprised at how easily I can speak to him without the hindrances that ground me with everyone else. I can be myself in his presence.

"What brings you to this forbidden place, sir?" I say lightly, drawing on his previous jest. "You know my reason – should I not know yours? Would that not be equal trade?"

He pauses, his pace slowing. We are by a set of windows. Clouds pass over the sun and his face is cast in shadow.

"Truthfully, my lady," he says, "I am hiding."

I sit on the nearest seat available – the window ledge. He looks concerned and unhappy. I yearn to ask him why, but I know the best remedy is to listen. I reach out and touch his hand. He stares at me, his expression confused.

"Tell me," I say.

"I am recently returned from Wittenberg," he says quietly. "Though Elsinore is the land of my birth, Wittenberg is my home. It is an enlightened place – music and culture and life abound. It is not rustic and dry and callow as it is here. This place –" he waves a hand around the room – "is the only way I can enjoy being here. My father and mother protest. I am of age. I should no longer be bound by my studies. I should have a wife, not be married to ancient books and moulding scrolls."

I purse my lips. I know the feeling of disappointment and entrapment of which he speaks; I am very familiar with it. It saddens me that he suffers, but in the same instant I am pleased to find another lost soul.

"But you are content with that," I answer softly. "You are content to be a scholar. You are content the way you are. Why do you not return to Wittenberg?"

"I cannot defy my parents."

"You are a man. You may do as you please."

A heavy silence falls between us. I press a hand against my lips as if I had just unleashed a disgusting curse.

"I am sorry," I say. "I did not mean that."

"No. I sense the reason you have returned here. Your father wishes for you to marry and you cannot go against him."

"Yes."

"But you do not wish to marry."

I pause. I catch his eyes. For a moment, it seems he looks into my very soul. I am caught off-guard. I slide from the window ledge.

"I am sorry," I say. "Perhaps I should go. This is not a matter of which I would speak lightly." I turn and walk away as briskly as dignity will allow. He follows; his hand reaches out, touching my wrist. Even though it is just a touch, it is as if my heart has jumped into my throat. I turn, meeting his piercing gaze.

"Don't," he says almost voicelessly.

"I must."

"Perhaps we can talk again."

Before I can answer, the library doors burst open. We jump apart to a respectable distance. My cheeks burn as I become aware of how close he was to me.

A herald has walked into the room. He spots me, but his gaze passes over me.

"My lord Hamlet," he says. "Your father requests your presence in his quarters."

I freeze as if a cold wind has blown over me from the window yonder. Hamlet… the prince? I had not even recognized him.

"I shall obey the king's command," the prince says. He strides towards the door as the herald addresses me.

"Lady Ophelia," he says respectfully and departs.

I remain rooted to my spot even after the two men have left. I am a fool. A complete and utter fool. How stupid he must have thought me, not to have recognized my own prince! Was it disrespectful? It was. What would Prince Hamlet do now?

_I must go speak to my father._


	3. Secret

_III. Secret_

Father is disappointed in me; he has made that abundantly clear. In his eyes, I have lied to him; I said I was tired when I was not. I have not acted like a well brought-up young lady and I proved to be an embarrassment to him here in Elsinore. As punishment, I am to be confined to my room for two weeks.

He did not say anything about my inability to recognize my prince.

I love my father dearly. He is my elder and despite his humble ways, he is an intelligent man. I am obliged to obey and listen to him. However, despite this, I am upset with Father for confining me to my room with nothing but my embroidery to keep me company, but I am also relieved for that means that I could avoid his Highness at all chances. I do not want to encounter him. Why did I not recognize him? He is the very image of his father the king, even though he has a very different disposition. Though I love King Hamlet, he can be cold and distant, much like his castle. I imagine those traits are necessary when you are the governor of so many lives. In Prince Hamlet, I have seen a fleeting glimpse of another side of royalty, one that is kind and considerate and lives beyond the realms of distance and order.

My life for these weeks is scheduled to be mundane. I sit by my fire with the goal of completing a picture of the willow by the creek's edge I saw on my journey to Elsinore, but I change my mind part-way. As I begin unstitching my work, another image forms vividly in my mind: one of the library. Selecting new thread, I begin my new work with fervour.

On the third day of my confinement, my maid delivers a letter. I thank her and set it aside, insistent that I finish my embroidery before attending to anything else. I imagine that the letter is from my father (who else would write to me?) and I do not want to give him any satisfaction while he keeps me locked in confinement. The letter sits on a table by my bed for two days until I finally pick it up and break the seal.

It is not from my father. That much is abundantly clear from the very first words of slanted, elegant script meet my eyes:

_My dearest Lady Ophelia_

I tremble, my heart pounding. I sit on my bed, afraid that my shaking legs will give way from under me.

_Word has reached me that you have been sentenced to solitary confinement for your digressions against the forbidden room. Please accept my most sincere condolences. I fear your father may be in the wrong for sentencing you so unjustly. Fourteen days in complete solitude was never a fair treatment to one's imagination. _

_Have faith, dear one. I am undertaking a quest of most dire importance: by means of letter writing, I shall be your company for the days you have left to serve in your high prison. If it is any consolation, I am serving my own sentence, even though I am free to walk where I please. My father would have me observe his dealings with the nobility. I watch him govern his land, wasting valuable time that could be spent with the company of better people than squabbling minor lords – perhaps a book._

_I told you that day in the forbidden room that we could, perhaps, talk again. Would you do me the honour, lady? I grow tired of the simple-mindedness that saturates my current surroundings, just as much as you must grow tired of the solitariness of your small room._

_Hamlet _

I lower the letter. My throat tightens; I feel like I am going to cry, but I also wish to shout with joy. Immediately, I set the prince's letter aside and grab the nearest sheet of parchment. Fetching a pen and ink, I sit down at my table and begin to write so quickly that I constantly blot the page.

_Your Highness,_

_If it pleases you so to come to my aide and combat this isolation, you would bring great happiness to my days. This solitariness is my worst enemy. As for your own troubles, have you considered not attending? Does your father the King need your attendance? If he claims that it is for your instruction once you inherit his throne, perhaps the knowledge you have gained at Wittenberg would come to your rescue. _

_Ophelia_

I fold the parchment over and call my maid. Pressing the letter into her hands, I tell her to take it to the prince immediately. It is for his eyes – and his eyes only.

Our secret correspondence makes my days pass faster than I can believe. The prince's letters make me laugh and cry with joy. His wit is as sharp as a knife, so very different from the humour I suffer at the hands of my brother and father. He writes of his conversations with the king, and I slowly, but steadily, feed him back my opinions on the situations, which curiously never offend him. When I am not writing letters, I am continuing to work on my embroidery, which is quickly becoming a small tapestry. The library stretches from my memory and imagination onto my cloth and I wish to finish it before my sentence is complete so I can hand it to the prince as a gift for being so kind to me.

All the while, in the back of my mind is a tiny voice advising me against this. It flutters constantly until silenced my by will, commenting on the danger that could come with befriending the prince. One must trust their royalty, but that is out of loyalty to their country. It is a dangerous thing to trust them personally…

In this moment, I do not care. In this moment, by way of writing and correspondence, I have freedom from my cage.


	4. Falter

_IV. Falter _

On the day my father is to release me from my confinement, I receive the last letter of our correspondence.

_My Lady Ophelia_,

_Today your father, the Lord Polonius, is to release you from your sentence. Shall I add my congratulations in fairing so well in prison?_

_And now to a serious note. I believe our halted conversation from that is long overdue to be continued. Perhaps the time has come for us to meet. If you agree, meet me in the forbidden room tonight._

_Hamlet_

My heart, once again, pounds. I press a hand to my mouth; I feel strangely excited. Hastily hiding the letter, I sweep to the fireside chair where my embroidery lies, not yet complete. I pick up my thread and resume my work, determined to finish it. This is how Father finds me when he comes to my chambers in the late afternoon.

"I see you are hard at work," he says as he enters.

"I am," I answer, not looking up.

"Daughter." He draws up a chair and sits down beside me. His voice is heavy. "I hope you have learned something of value. I do not want to punish you, Ophelia – in fact, it grieves me to do so – but that is a father's duty when their children stray. Solitude can be quite helpful to educate the mind."

I smile. I do not show that it is a half-hearted gesture. "Yes, Father," I say. I am quiet and obedient once again, to his eyes. I know it is the easiest way to get him to leave.

"Thank you, my child." He rises to his feet and sweeps away, leaving me alone.

I watch him go, smiling slightly, until the door is shut behind him. A glorious feeling rises within me. Triumph.

This evening, my embroidery is finished. I slip quietly out of my room, hoisting my cloak's hood over my head to cover my face in shadow as I make my way quickly and quietly through the cold halls towards the library. I do not encounter a soul.

When I push the door open, he is waiting for me by the window. It is a clear night. Silver moonlight shines through the window, illuminating his profile. He looks pensive… and sad. I step forward, not wanting to rush in and take him out of his reverie.

"Ophelia." He breathes my name. He does not have to turn to know I am here.

"Your Highness."

This time, he turns, giving me a small smile. "Come, join me," he says, offering me a hand. "The night is beautiful."

I do. I stand beside him as we gaze out the window at the bright stars pinned in the black sky, the silver moonlight washing over us.

"I brought you something," I begin to say, but he speaks before I can finish.

"I want to thank you, my lady," he says. "It was by a selfish act that I wrote to you. Your letters helped sustain me through a most difficult time in my life. You gave me a little happiness each day with your words."

"Sir," I answer slowly, "I am the one who needs to thank you."

"No," he says. "Please do not thank me. I will have enough nobles fawning over me, thanking me for my gratitude and mercy when I become king. This is a shallow world, Ophelia. We are all but small parts within it, but most do not like to contend with that reasoning."

"My lord?"

"Forget I said anything." He pauses. "All my thoughts of politics are hurting my head."

A long, uncomfortable silence falls between us. I can sense his distress. I want to soothe him, to comfort him as he had done me through his written word during my long confinement. I summon my courage to speak.

"Your Highness," I begin.

"Please don't call me that."

I swallow hard. "Hamlet…" I falter. It is not correct to address him so, but I have. I lose the words I was going to say and fall silent.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "My lady."

I fold my hands and stand silently at his side. How long we stay like that before I can speak again, I cannot tell. I count my breaths, waiting for my courage to return. I need to speak. I should speak.

"Hamlet," I say, "when we last spoke, you told me that you could not defy your parents. You then went on to guess the reason I have returned to Elsinore. My father does wish for me to marry, just as your father wishes for you to marry. I understand your position. I cannot see happiness in such a bond. I would rather spend a lifetime in a nunnery than to be wed to a man who cannot think, cannot love. I have not met a man who is nothing but boorish and unenlightened, where love is all but abandoned… except for you. I do not know where that leaves us. You are royalty. You must marry someone who deserves you and this country, if you are to take your father's crown."

He turns away from me, unsettled by my words. I almost stop, afraid that my next words will anger him, but I force myself to continue all the same.

"But you do not want the crown, do you?"

My voice settles into the dust of the library. I can hear his breathing in the dark: shallow and fast, as if he is under great pressure. I wonder what he is thinking, whether I have offended him in some way, or worse. I have nothing to do but wait for his response.

"I… I would rather my uncle Claudius take the throne than keep it for myself," he says. "I would throw the throne away for all the riches in the world. I do not want it. Let the election choose anyone but I when my father's time comes to an end. I am not ready for it. I cannot rule now. I do not know if I could ever have the capacity to rule." He turns around and gazes at me. "That is my one shame. I have not told anyone, not even Horatio, who is my best companion. Now you know."

"And I will keep it." I draw out my embroidered image of the library. "This is for you," I say, handing it to him. "That way, you will have an image of your favourite childhood place when you return to Wittenberg."

He holds the cloth limply in his hand. "I am not returning to Wittenberg, Ophelia."

I press the cloth tighter into his palm, closing his hand around it with my own. "Yes, you are. You want nothing else but to be a scholar. Why not? Go. Go from Elsinore and everything here, return to the place that you love. You have the strength and the ability to do that. I only wish that I could."

We stare at each other, eyes locked on each other's faces. There are unwanted tears in my eyes; they are usual companions to any defiance I have. I blink, releasing them, cursing myself for showing a sign of weakness. There is nothing more that I want than to see him achieve something that he wants for himself. Too many times have I seen others have their dreams destroyed by the desires and rule of their parents. If a prince can flee from that, it will spark a little hope in the hearts of the nobility. Hope that we could do the same. Hope that I can do the same.

If the prince returns to Wittenberg against the king and queen's wishes, perhaps I, too, can return to Paris.

I am not sure what causes him to act. Suddenly, I am in his arms, his lips pressed gently to mine in a kiss that makes my heart soar. I kiss him back, all thoughts of caution gone. I do not know whether this is love I feel, but his presence makes me happier than I think I can ever possibly be. We stand there in the moonlight, holding each other in a tight embrace, until suddenly he draws back.

"I…" He seems uncertain of what to say, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I… That was very ungallant of me. I apologize, Lady Ophelia. I should not have done that." He walks away.

"Your Highness—"

"Don't call me that," he says.

He leaves the library. I stand alone by the window. Part of me wants desperately to follow him, but the other tells me to let him go.


	5. Flame

_V. Flame _

Throughout the following weeks, I am tormented by my very own thoughts, ones that I long to have dispersed but will not abandon my mind. He has not spoken or written to me since he walked from the library. Though I see him at a distance in the castle, he never catches my eye. I do not need for us to speak to sense his embarrassment and his disappointment in himself. It is plain as day. Part of me rejoices that he avoids me so, but there is a deeper part of me that resists this feeling and longs for something out of reach. Day by day, this is the part that grows more powerful and persuasive. It challenges my thoughts, confusing me.

I continually question what happened between the prince and I. I have been embraced by royalty, but I myself am not royal. I am not married. He is not my husband. It is not correct. I desperately want to abandon these thoughts, but I cannot abandon the morals of my upbringing so easily. My heart longs for him. I miss his humorous turns of speech. I wish we could return to the way we were in our correspondences.

My mood appears to be linked to the weather. The thaws have finally commenced this far in the north, and with them come the showers of thunder and lightning. Father notes my depression and anxiety. He attributes it to two causes: the weather and Laertes' continued absence. In an attempt to make me happy, he sends a letter to my brother, pleading for him to write. A few weeks later, he returns the favour and sends me a detailed listing of the heroic acts of decency he has been involved in at France. His letter only makes me miss Paris even more. If I were in Paris, these troubles would not have come upon me.

_Have faith, little one,_ my brother writes. _I will return to you soon._

I try to take comfort in his words, but I find that I cannot.

The evening sees in a lightning shower. The sky is aflame as rain pours down like a celestial waterfall. I lie curled in my bed. The thunder hurts my head, but soothes the panic in my mind by way of distraction. The loud rolls of thunder cannot allow me to focus. Yet somehow I do reach a conclusion, a certain finality of actions. I must do this. I must tell him. I rise from my bed and sit at my table, pen in hand.

_It was a song that lured me to the forbidden room that day. Please do not deny me the music my heart longs to hear._

I roll up the parchment and call for my maid. I tell her that the message is urgent and she leaves immediately. I have nothing to do but wait.

When my maid returns, she has no letter in her hand. My heart falls with disappointment. I am about to return to my bed when she stops me.

"The prince waits outside, my lady," she whispers.

I stare at her, certain that I misheard. When it is clear that I did not, I grab my cloak and walk to my door. He waits for me in the hall. He appears tired; there is a forlorn look in his eye.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Come with me," he says quietly. "I have something I wish to say to you, and I do not want to be overheard."

"Very well."

He leads me through the halls. It is soon evident that he is familiar with all passages within it, both used and secret. It is not long before I have lost my bearings and am uncertain of where I am.

He has brought me to a small chamber. There are two entrances; the one we have come through and one at the opposite end. Where it leads, I do not know. Rain lashes at the windows, but it is lit with candles, which give it a warming glow. Among the shelves overflowing with books and hand-written documents, there is a table, swamped with scraps of parchment and stained with ink. Lying on the edge is my embroidered picture of the library. My throat tightens. With curiosity getting the better of me, I venture over to the table. Picking up the nearest page, my eyes scan the heavily blotted text: it is a poem. There are only three visible lines on it; the rest is crossed out. I set the page down, knowing that it is his work.

"You write?"

"A favoured pastime," he answers, "when there is a desire to escape."

I glance back at the page. I wish to try to decipher the poem, but I look away. A poem should be read when it is finished, not when the writer is still attempting to find his way with words – or so I have always felt. Secular poetry is a foreign thing to me.

"The song you heard," he says slowly, "has never been performed for an audience. Very little of what I write goes beyond my own eyes and ears. There are few who know of my affinity for creativity outside of Wittenberg."

"And why not?" I answer. "You have a gift. What little knowledge I have of music and art tells me so."

"Ah, Ophelia," he says, smiling. "Always questioning the why's and how's of the world."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that a sin?" I ask. "Wondering?"

"Never. To question the world is a right we as humans should fulfill to the best of our abilities."

"Perhaps I should become a scholar myself."

"Do you mock me?" he asks.

"A jest, sire," I counter.

He begins to laugh. I look at him, uncertain of what to say. However, the look I send him only causes him to laugh even more. The corners of my mouth twitch; I feel as though I will break into laughter soon if this ridiculousness does not cease.

Finally, he manages to stop his laughter. He takes my hands and looks at me fondly.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You, dear one," he answers. "It is you I have missed these long weeks. I found myself with the need to ignore you, to deny you, lest our relationship be found to be improper. I have sorely missed your companionship." He gazes at me; when he speaks next, there is a serious, pleading tone to his voice. "Stay with me, Ophelia," he murmurs. "Please. Stay. I cannot deny my feelings for you any longer."

"Do you love me?" The question has need to be asked. I have to know the answer. Without it, I am nothing. Without an answer, I would be better to leave now and never look back.

He does not hesitate in answering, and I have only need to see his eyes to know that he speaks the truth.

"Yes," he says. "By all the sunrises and sunsets this world has seen since the dawn of time, I do. I would trade all my scholarship and every book to ever cross my hands to know that you reciprocate my feelings. These past weeks have been every trial for me, a daily fight to not communicate with you. I cannot go through that sense of separation again, but I will if you ask it. My lady, if you ever saw a time fit to speak to me, answer me now."

In this moment, I could shout with joy. In this moment, I could throw myself in his arms and never let go. In this moment, I could burst with happiness. I am overwhelmed by the chaotic, confusing emotions that are stirring in my heart. I long to give in to them completely, to cease listening to the rationalities of my mind and listen to the longings of my heart.

I can long, but it is difficult to give up ways of thinking that have been taught to you over the long years.

"Do you find this wrong?" he asks, concerned.

I look up, afraid that my silence has hurt him. "No," I answer. "And it never could be. I am…" As I search for the proper words, an unanticipated laugh bubbles up from inside me. "I do not even know what I am!"

He grins. "The lady is lost for words, methinks," he says teasingly.

"There are no words that can describe what I am," I answer.

He places a hand gently on my cheek. "Perhaps there is but one."

"I do not know if I can say it." My voice is almost silent. I speak my one truth. Beyond my father and brother, I do not know what love is. It is my greatest fear that I will never know it, never recognize it. As such, I am afraid to say it. It is but a word, but perhaps the greatest one.

He kisses me on the cheek. "Then say it with me," he whispers into my ear.

"I cannot," I murmur.

"One word."

"I do not know it," I say. It is breaking my heart to admit it. "I have never known this… affection. My heart may be inflamed for you, but my mind cannot understand it."

"Then let me show you," he says, kissing me. I close my eyes, trembling in his embrace. His lips linger on mine as he speaks. "The mind may understand the functions of this world, but it is the heart that gives us joy. Without it, we are nothing. I may be a prince, but I am also a man, and one who loves you in a way that no other can. And I say to you, Lady Ophelia, that you are beautiful: in body, mind and spirit."

My eyes open and I gaze back at him. I do not need to speak. His words have worked upon me like a charm. I have surrendered to my heart and it is through my heart that I will answer.

I kiss him fiercely; all the passion that has been locked inside me over these past weeks is unleashed in that kiss. I am no longer thinking of consequences or of my father's opinions. All I know is that he is a man who loves me, and my heart belongs to him.


	6. Blessed

_VI. Blessed_

_Dear brother,_

_Spring in Elsinore is lovely. It has taken me a long time to adjust, but now that I have, I am certain that I never want to leave. The flowers are finally blooming; if you were here, I would pick you a bunch on one of my walks. I am finally happy here; I feel that the castle can become my home. Ignore whatever Father has written to you about me in the past; I am not ill nor gripped by sadness. There is no need to be concerned for me, dear brother. _

_If you see that you have the time, perhaps you could travel to Elsinore for the summer. I realize that you are hard at work in France, but it would be a thing to consider. I would very much like to see you again and I will put in all of my sisterly efforts to bring you back to the place of our upbringing. I would very much like to see you again. Correspondences are a wonderful invention, but I do grow weary of them. I would like to see you in person some day. _

_I hope that this most recent letter finds you in good health._

_Your loving sister,_

_Ophelia_

Laertes and I have been writing to each other constantly since I returned to Elsinore. He can always see through me, even my own writing. I have never known anyone who is as good at reading me as my brother. His letters are a dear comfort as I cannot see him in person, but I do wish for the day when he could come to the castle. Laertes will then certainly know just how happy I am as of now. The storm has passed; the light has come out. I am a new woman.

My brother is not the only one who has picked up on my changes of mood. Father has recently told me that there is a certain air about me. He is glad that I have had a change of heart and that I am working to make Elsinore my new home, but he is also cast into suspicion. I do not know if he suspects that I have a lover – knowing him, it is both unlikely and likely that it would cross his mind. My father enjoys gossip too much; it is his greatest weakness. He is very knowledgeable of the affairs of others, but this is the one time I wish that he would keep his eyes and ears far away from _my_ affairs.

It is known throughout the castle that the prince and I are acquainted, but no one knows the full extent of our relationship. We are no longer embarrassed to appear together while in the company of others. We are fortunate, as keeping a fully secret relationship would add pressures that neither of us desire.

The queen has made it known that she approves of my friendship with her son. It was not long ago when she called on me to share her opinion.

"It lightens my heart to see him happy for once," she said. "For many a week it was as if he longed for nothing else but to return to Wittenberg. Your friendship has done many a thing for him and I thank you for it, dearest Ophelia."

It was not long after that the queen continued to call me more frequently to stay with her and keep her company. Father approves; a good relationship with the royals is never wrong, in his eyes.

"My mother enjoys your company, I see," the prince tells me. It is a clear spring afternoon; the weather is uncommonly mild. We are amongst a party of courtiers taking a daily ride out on to the hills beyond the castle. Many are so ingrained in their own conversations that we are left to our own devices: we can speak freely here.

"The queen is very kind to me," I tell him. "I enjoy her company very much."

"She speaks of you fondly."

"She does?"

He laughs. "You do not understand the affect you have on the members of my family, Ophelia!" He grins at me and I have no option but to laugh along with him. "You are dearly loved by all. Happy was the hour that Lord Polonius saw fit to retrieve you from your abode in France."

"And I would not return for all the treasures of this world," I answer.

"Not even for your brother?" he asks.

I fall silent. It is a question that has sprung to mind many a time in the past month. I love my brother dearly and I would trade all the treasures in the world to see him again. But he is hidden away in France; he will not return here unless my father demands it. The chance of Laertes coming to Elsinore is very unlikely; it is a fact that weighs heavily on my mind. If given the opportunity, would I flee back to France and to the brother whom I love, or would I stay here, in the embrace of the man I love?

"I do not have an answer," I say finally, speaking the truth.

The prince has no reply for that. We fall into silence. Why do I sense a feeling of competition brewing here?

"You would like him," I say.

"Who?"

"My brother."

"Indeed."

I urge my horse closer to his and our stallions come to a halt. The rest of the party continues down the hill without us; no one seems to notice that we have stalled.

"He is a good man," I say emphatically, "loyal to those whom he loves. I care for him more than anyone else in this world, save you."

He is slow to answer, taking time to let my words brew. "I would like to meet him some day," he says finally. "Any member of your family deserves as much respect as I can give them. To disrespect your brother would be, by extension, to disrespect you, and I could not do that."

I smile. I am blessed that he understands me so.

"Come," he says. "Let us ride."

We urge our stallions into a gallop and race down the hills towards the end of the party of travelling courtiers, so very far ahead of us.


	7. Rapture

_VII. Rapture_

The sheets are tangled around me as I lie on my stomach, reading the page that has been handed to me. As my eyes re-read the elegant, slanted script, my fingers play with the edge of the parchment. I have developed a love for the feel of parchment and the scent of ink. Though I may not be a studied scholar, there is something addictive about the tools of the written word that make my readings all the more special. However, even without these things, these specific words would still be special for me, as they were written for my eyes and my eyes only.

This is the third edition of a poem he has been writing. He still cannot see to declare it perfect, but I have induced through my talks with him that there is no such thing as 'perfect.' There is always something more than can be done. Art is a continuing process, and woe to the craftsman who cannot recognize that. Though I have not the knowledge to critique art of the written word properly, I can tell him whether I like it or not and, more importantly, if it has meaning for me.

This poem in particular has strong meaning for me. It describes our own meeting and the start of our relationship, but the course of these events is hidden within the words. One must know where to search to find it. I have loved the poem since he completed the very first version, under my own watchful eye, here in this very room. Usually, he cannot write in the presence of others: I am the only exception to that rule.

I push myself up on my elbows, glancing over to the edge of the bed where he sits, waiting for my critique. His back is to me, and although I cannot see his face, I can sense that he is in a pensive mood this evening. He is humming a strand of music of his own composition; it is a habit he has when he is lost in thought. I do not know if he even realizes he sings when he is thinking. I sit up and move towards him, my hand touching his shoulder; his skin is warm beneath my fingers. He turns and looks at me, a question in his eyes. I do not give him an answer; instead, I kiss him deeply. When our lips part, I hand the page back to him.

"I don't believe that there is anything else I can say about it."

"Not one word?" he asks in mock seriousness.

I kiss him again. "Not one," I answer. "It means everything to me."

"I believe that is five words."

I raise my eyebrows. "Very well," I say. I snatch the page from his hand and get up, walking across the room. I set the page down on the ink-stained desk that is illuminated by moonlight. I glance at the window – the sky is very dark, and the moon high. The candles that we lit earlier are very low. It must be late in the night.

One by one, I blow the candles out, plunging the room into a near-darkness. With the lack of candlelight, the warm golden glow that had previously has been replaced with the quiet, cold silver light of the moon.

I hear him get up and he stands behind me. His hands fold over mine and he kisses my cheek. "Shall I name the reasons I love thee?" he says, murmuring into my ear.

I feel a surge of affection for him. "Thou hast no need," I answer, mockingly copying his archaic form of speech.

"However, I would like to and shall not proceed without my lady's permission."

"Shall I grant that permission, then?" I ask.

We are both on the verge of laughter. He kisses me again. "Kind, compassionate soul," he says quietly. "You have a way of understanding this world that I have encountered in no other. You see things for what they are without being asked to do so. Your opinions are honest; honesty is difficult to find in this savage world that we live in."

My cheeks are flushing red. I am not used to being complimented – and surely not in this way.

"You have a love for language and song," he continues, "and an appreciation for the arts. And you are beautiful—"

I begin to say his name, but he silences me with a kiss. "You do not need to answer," he says. "I said what I wished to say, no more, no less."

"You have left me speechless," I say after a long pause. "No…" I turn and face him. There is only a small part of his face that is illuminated by the moonlight; the rest is in shadow. "I do know what to say." Our hands are still intertwined. I lead as we walk across the room and sit down on the bed. I take a breath and speak slowly. "A month ago, there was a word you asked me to say. I could not say it then. In my defence, I did not know then what it meant. I do now." I gently stroke his cheek with my fingers and brush his hair out of his face. A smile touches my lips. "I know," I say, "beyond a doubt that I do love you, Hamlet, as much as you love me. I love you, and nothing in this world will change that."

I capture his lips with mine, kissing him fervently, and embrace him. I can feel him shaking. Drawing away, I look at him, puzzled.

"You are trembling."

"It is nothing." He kisses me before I can protest. "Thank you, Ophelia."

"Why?"

He ran a hand through my hair. "You have done more for me than you could possibly know." The music returns; he sings the song to me softly as he embraces me. We lie together, his arms wrapped around me, as we slowly drift off into the realm of dreams and sleep.


	8. Crossroads

_VIII. Crossroads_

I am with the queen in her quarters. The summer months have been warm, and as such we do not require a fire. She has asked me here, as she often does, to keep her company as she relaxes after a long day of politics. As per our custom, we are both embroidering; a needle and thread is a good way to keep one's hands busy and their mouths free.

Today is different than the others. The queen has sent away the other ladies who are often found in her company. This afternoon, it is just her and me sitting in her large, comfortable chairs by the window, letting the sun's golden summer rays light our work.

"Ophelia," the queen says presently, "there is a matter I wish to discuss with you."

"Yes, your Majesty?" I say modestly.

"It concerns my son."

My throat tightens. Does the queen suspect? We never did discuss the course of action we would take if we were found out.

"How so, my lady?" I ask cautiously.

The queen lowers her embroidery. "I am trying to put this as delicately as I can, Ophelia," she says. "I have seen the way you two interact. My son loves you dearly, possibly more than you know. I must know – and answer me honestly – how well do you know him? Have you returned this affection he has for you?"

I swallow. I am not sure how I can step around this. "I do not know what your Majesty means," I say.

The queen smiles gently. "Dearest Ophelia," she says. "How pure and virtuous you are."

I do not wish to correct her, so I remain silent, hoping that this topic will be set aside soon.

"You do not share those feelings?" the queen asks.

"I love the prince the way I must, your Majesty," I answer.

"Then I must ask you to do something for me," she says.

"Whatever it is, I will do it." I have no choice but to be obedient.

"Speak to him for me," she tells me. "I fear for my son, Ophelia. I fear that he hides sadness behind that façade of happiness. He is apt in the ways of saying one thing and meaning another. I know of his desire to return to Wittenberg. He will depart of his own volition if he merely had the audacity to speak to his father, the king. His father would not deny our son anything, if he but asks for it. However, it would disappoint me to see him return to a place so far away for reasons that may be valid, but are also frivolous."

I have accidentally stabbed myself with my own needle. My finger stings and I see a pinprick of red blood where the skin has been broken. "What… what shall I say to him, my queen?" I ask.

"Urge him to stay here," she says. "I cannot bear to part with him again. It is time that he thought about marriage; already, his father and I are considering the daughters of our allies. He must learn the trade of politics and ruling; it is his birthright, whether he wants it or not. Politics is something not learned from books, but in practice and for that he must stay here."

My throat has gone raw. I am uncertain if I am able to speak clearly. "I… understand," I say.

The queen notices. "Is there something wrong, Ophelia?" she asks.

I nearly choke on my next word, but it comes out nonetheless.

"No," I lie.

The queen does not look convinced, but she says nothing more on the subject.

When I am dismissed, I hurry to find the prince. He is in the gardens, one of his more favourite locations in the castle. As is his custom, he is reading on one of the many benches scattered around the place. I approach quietly, waiting for him to acknowledge my presence for I fear that I do not know how to speak to him of his mother's wishes.

"Ophelia," he says, closing the book and looking up. "What is it?"

"The queen," I say.

He stands up quickly. "What does my mother say?"

"She wishes for you to get married," I say heavily. I sit down on the bench and he joins me, listening intently to my words. "She fears that you would return to Wittenberg at the soonest chance. She does not want to part from you again."

He sighs; there is a grimace on his face. "What peace can she not give me?" he snarls under his breath.

"She is your mother," I say.

"That does not give me a reason to obey her!"

"I obey my father."

"I am not you."

I fold my hands and look away. I can feel the stirrings of shame rising within me; my face is turning crimson. "Do you fear marriage, my lord?"

He looks at me, his eyes fierce. "What?"

I return his gaze, determined to stay focused. "Do you fear marriage?"

He falls silent. "… why do you ask me this, my lady?" There is a cold, hard edge to his voice.

"Why do you think, your Highness?" I counter.

His eyes harden. "Do not call me that."

"Why not?"

"I do not wish to hear my title from you."

"Are we not beyond such things as petty ranks?" I ask.

He does not answer.

"Hamlet." I rarely say his name aloud. It grabs his attention immediately. He looks at me and there is an apology in his eyes. Without caring who may be watching, he leans against me and I place my arms around him.

"Why must you ask me that question, Ophelia?" he says quietly.

I stroke his hair gently. "Because you are a quandary, my lord," I say. "On one hand you devote yourself to love and attachment, but simultaneously you thrust it away with the other. You can make grandiose claims in the name of love, but you are frightened of the very thought of becoming married."

"It is not marriage I detest," he says slowly, sitting up. "It is the thought of being locked in one place forever, forced to deny the wishes of my heart. For now, I cannot marry, even though my mother wishes it."

We are quiet for a long time. Eventually, I take his hand in mine. "Thank you," is all I say.

"Why do you thank me?" he asks.

"Because you gave me your honest answer," I say, "and that is all I could ask for."

He groans, resting his head in his hands. "What shall I do, Ophelia? It hurts me to hurt my mother so. I cannot tell her the truth. What a son am I…"

"You have no need," I say. "Suffer disappointment, she shall, but her heart will not break. Her wants are not your wants. She knows somewhere that you will suffer if she forces you to bend to her will. That is why she has not forced any decisions upon you, as of yet." I gaze at the sky. A cloud has passed in front of the sun, stealing the warmth of its golden rays. "This is not what you want. If you desire to return to Wittenberg, then return to Wittenberg."

"And what of your desires?"

"Does it matter?" I say.

"Of course it does!" he exclaims. "I would rather die than break your heart."

"Then answer me truthfully: do you wish to return to Wittenberg?"

He does not speak for a long time. He does not need words: I know what his silence means. I have always known, from the moment I met him. He will always be happier at Wittenberg than Elsinore.

"You do not need to answer," I finally say. "I know what lies in your heart. Think on it. I only wish to see joy brought to you."

I rise to my feet and slowly walk away. He catches my arm, stopping me.

"I cannot hurt you, Ophelia," he says.

I steel myself for my next words. "No matter what your decision, you will not hurt me," I say.

He lets go. Whether he reads through my lie or not, I do not know. I walk away as quickly as I can, making my way back to my quarters before the tears have a chance to fall.


	9. Relinquished

_IX. Relinquished_

Fall comes early this year. Even now, the leaves fall from the trees in a spectacular descent of orange, red and yellow. I notice the colours, but I cannot rejoice in their beauty. There are other matters that are much more important to my mind as of now.

The time that I both feared and wanted has come. I feared it because I do not want to say goodbye. I wanted it because I desired the best for him. I knew his love of scholarship was greater than his love for power. I do not believe that he has ever wanted the throne. He has not told me that outright, despite the occasional statement about his uncle, but I know him well enough. He does not see himself as fit to rule. His father is a healthy, robust man; he will rule as king for many years to come. My prince does not have to consider ruling now. Perhaps there will come a time later in his life when he will feel that he is ready to ascend the throne, but not yet. Now is the time to spend on the things that he loves – and what he loves, even more than myself, is Wittenberg. I respect him for it, and though it pains me to say farewell, I know I must say goodbye.

I was the one who urged him to return to the land of his heart, after all.

We are standing in his chambers where we can say farewell to each other in private. There is not much time left; he must leave soon. We are standing at his window, gazing out at the magnificent landscape beyond, as we have done many times throughout the spring and summer. However, this time is different. There is a tangible sadness in the air that both of us feel and do not have to speak about.

I keep my hands folded and my head down. I do not know if I can say anything.

"Do not weep for me," he says. "This is not an occasion for tears."

"They come though I do not want them to," I answer.

"Are you angered by my decision?" he asks, sounding puzzled.

"No."

"You do not want me to leave."

A sad laugh comes out unintended. "No, I do not want you to leave," I tell him. "But I do want nothing else but your happiness. You are not happy here in Elsinore. You belong in Wittenberg and it would be heartless of me to tie you to this place."

He sighs. "My actions are breaking your heart," he says. He sounds miserable. "I have brought nothing else on you but anguish and pain."

"No!" I am so shocked by this statement that I utter my rejection of it with profound emphasis. "You have made me happier than I have ever been in all my life. My only wish is that it did not have to end so soon."

"Ophelia," he interrupts, "I am a selfish, inconsiderate man. I fell madly in love with you, but that did not stop me from putting my own interests above the deep desires of your heart. I am hurting you now more than I ever could through my decision to depart Elsinore. I am…" He stops. I know he is fighting with himself; he does it often. He does not want to admit whatever it is he is going to say. It does not matter to me: I love him for who he is.

He is still yet to realize that. Perhaps some day he will and come back to me.

"You do not have to say it," I say.

"You know what I am?"

"I can guess."

He smiles. "Dear one," he says, kissing me gently. "You who know me better than all else. You have been kinder to me than anyone ever has, Ophelia. Know that I am forever grateful for that." He withdraws a rolled piece of parchment. Taking my hands in his, he folds my fingers over it. "Take this," he says. "When you have great desire to think of me in the coming months, read it. I can only hope that it will comfort you."

"What is it?" I ask.

"You will see."

There is a rap at the door. "My lord," a herald calls, "it is nearly time to depart!"

I look up at him, suddenly in a panic. My heart is racing. One hears the stories of heartbreak suffered by women whose lovers must leave them. _So this is what it feels like, to have so little time left. _

I set the parchment aside and throw my arms around his neck, pressing my lips fiercely to his. He holds me in a tight embrace and for a moment, it seems as though we are locked like that forever as neither wants to let the other go. However, all things must come to an end. Slowly, I draw away and step back. He takes my hand one last time and kisses it. There is no need for words. He looks at me one last time and then turns, striding towards the door. I watch him go, staying rooted to my spot.

It is only when he has left and the door has closed that the tears finally come. They cloud my eyes and rush down my cheeks, uncontrollable. I stagger, my legs no longer wanting to support me. I sit down on the floor, my back to the cold stone wall. I lean my forehead against my hand, willing for my storm of weeping to come to an end. This was just a moment in time. Life goes on. I would pick myself up and carry on, as I always did.

I stare at the roll of parchment that now lies on the floor. I pick it up and close my hand gently around it. Silently, I make a promise to myself and to him, the man I love. My prince. My future king. Hamlet.

_I will remember. _

_Fin_

_

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**Thank you so much to everyone who read! This story was very experimental for me, so thanks for sticking with it! As it happens, I enjoyed writing in this style so much that I decided to continue the story. Though **_**To Thine Own Self**_** is complete, Ophelia and Hamlet's romance can be followed in the sequel, **_**In My Memory Locked.**_** Check out my profile to find it!**

**Thank you, once again, to EVERYONE for reading! Y'all are the best!**

**~Idri  
**


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